


Graveside

by ohhhhyoufromchinatoo



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, i keep writing about Resident Evil please make it stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:00:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhhhyoufromchinatoo/pseuds/ohhhhyoufromchinatoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the incident in the Arklay Mansion,there is one more name to add to the    list of the dead, one that only Rebecca Chambers knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graveside

**Author's Note:**

> As my good friend suiyou noted "The need to write S.T.A.R.S. grave 'fic hits every Resident Evil writer at some point." So this is felt out as a sort of conceptualization/ planning stages for the memorial that stands for all the S.T.A.R.S. members that were the first ones to die, the ones that remind Chris, Jill, and everyone else of what they fight for. And, me being me, wanted to note that, to the rest of the world,and to who it matters, Billy Coen is dead, too.

The days start to bleed into each other in the waning hours of the morning of July 25th after Brad Vickers safely  touches down on the helipad and the surviving members of S.T.A.R.S. stagger out of it, bloodied and weary to the bone.

The fabled elite Special Tactics and Rescue Squad whittled down to five exhausted members, without leadership (and Rebecca wonders to herself if Wesker had ever truly been a leader) nor evidence for the hell they’d just been through outside of testimony- and that testimony itself subject to every term in the  psychiatric evaluation glossary.

So, as the August heat waves  roil in through Raccoon City, Rebecca Chambers, in between the bouts of nervous paranoia and survivors guilt, can’t help but feel a tiny little bit like it was all some cosmic joke. Years worth of dedicated studying and application, clinicals in Raccoon City Hospital’s infamous trauma ward, and all the tools in her first aid kit were useless in  the aftermath of Edward Dewey crashing  through the windows of the train, flesh shredded and covered in bite wounds, his pallor already that of a corpse.

Rebecca fiddles with all the boxes still stuffed full  of her belongings; _Biochemical Journal,_   _American Journal of Medicine ,_ pens and paper, thatpopulate the corners of her desk, moving them, placing them on top of each other, moving them again, but can’t find it within herself to actually place them on her desk.

Making her spot in the S.T.A.R.S. office look like it belonged to her felt  a little hollow in the wake of her failure to do  her job.

In front of her Chris Redfield is boring a hole through the latest round of case reports, his eyes narrowed, expression that of a man with an attack strategy. His right leg is jiggling restlessly and a cigarette dangles from between his lips, smoke hovering in the airspace above him momentarily  before dissipating.

Rebecca considers reminding him that the S.T.A.R.S.  offices are strictly non smoking,  but thinks better of it. To the side of him Jill Valentine pushes off her cornflower blue beret and runs her hands  through her bob  cut, letting loose a large, frustrated sigh that gives voice to how everyone in the room is feeling.

After the disastrous results of the investigation into the Arklay mountains Irons had reassigned the pitiful remaining survivors to regular beat work. 4/10 shifts of the rare drug arrests, the occasional speeding ticket, sometimes if they were lucky they might catch an attempted breaking and entering.

It all paled in the face of the horror they’d seen, in the knowledge that in shadowy corners  Umbrella scientists and  researchers are conducting inhumane experiments.

Chris and Barry had been conducting their own research into Umbrella when they could and had mentioned some new offshoot virus called “G”, but information apart from the name of this new virus was scarce.

“We should do something.”  Jill speaks up  suddenly, tapping her fingers on the cherry wood of Chris’ desk.

Chris eyebrows rose pointedly in response, exhaling cigarette smoke in concerted effort with the speculation on his face as if to say that right now he was in the Midst of Doing Something.

“For everyone, I mean. You know,  for Enrico, Joseph, Forest, Kenneth…”Jill’s mouth sets into a hard line, determination on her face making it clear she had been considering  this  for a while. “So people don’t forget, so people know they  didn’t…” Her voice drops off and she ducks her head.

Chris and Rebecca both know the words Jill can’t bring herself to say, both know _die in vain_ didn’t  seem like much of a possibility when their investigation was stonewalled, when their testimony decried as suspect, when their experiences were written off as a joke. Umbrella had the power and the clout to make sure no one discovered how or why the members of STARS died.

Chris raises his right knee to rest his elbow upon it, chin in hand, cigarette hanging precariously from in between his lips as ashes fall to litter the surface of his desk. He nods in response to Jill’s idea, the gears in his brain moving.

“We could hold a memorial service to those that have fallen, a private ceremony. Hell, not like those acquisitioned STARS funds are going to much use, and they deserve at least that much.” His blue eyes dart to the side briefly, regret  at the thought they couldn’t do more, at the fact there would be no bodies they could recover for the loved ones, at the fact they didn’t all come home on the helicopter.

“Any thoughts, Rebecca?” He glances at the youngest STARS member, the rookie of Bravo, the only one to survive when all her teammates- experienced, qualified, talented men- had died.

Rebecca’s hands move to her chest to clasp the dog tags hanging there, fingers tracing the emergency contact information engraved in the stainless steel for one _Coen, Billy_. There was one more thing she had to do, a cruel kindness of informing his parents that ex-Lieutenant Billy Coen had been killed on route to the Ragathon Base, that his body had been too mangled, too destroyed for safe retrieval measures, that no further investigation could be conducted as the site where he lay was now the smoldering ruin of the Umbrella Training Facility.

That he wasn’t dead, not really. Her last sight of him he was very much the opposite; a thumbs up, a genuine smile of gratitude as he told her “Thank you, Rebecca,” before he turned away from her, away from her and towards the rising sun and the forests of Arklay.

He had been armed, certainly, but that was before Rebecca knew that in the hallways of the Arklay Mansion Kenneth Sullivan  lie with his throat torn out, that on the threshold of the woods outside of the mansion Joseph Frost had been torn apart like a paper doll.

He wasn’t dead, but he might as well be. It would be easier, that way, to lock that part inside- cruel as it may feel- and believe that he was gone, just a memory. It would be less painful to hold out the hope that he might still be alive, that somehow she might see him again.

_One more body that must be mourned_ , she thinks as she nods and grips the dog tags tighter. “Of course.”


End file.
